


And Stranger Things

by Rosada



Category: Mononoke-hime | Princess Mononoke, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Fox!Stiles, M/M, Magic Is a Thing, based on art, fox!scott, fox!sheriff, stiles is the fox prince, the latter are literally giant foxes like in mononoke-hime, universe smoosh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:04:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosada/pseuds/Rosada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a vicious attack on his village by the Emperor's Hunters, Derek can feel the cursed bullet in his side sucking out his life. Yet he crawls forward to the only place that he knows he will not be followed--the Spirit Forest. He expects to die in peace there, beneath the trees, but perhaps the spirits are kinder than legends say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Stranger Things

**Author's Note:**

> This is something of a universe smoosh with the film Mononoke-Hime (Princess Mononoke), based on [this drawing](http://banryeo.tumblr.com/post/61587614416) by Banryeo on Tumblr. All credit for the idea goes to her, I just expanded upon it. Be warned of canon-typical violence and mentions of death, and no small amount of grossness when it comes to fox behavior (especially the eating habits). Please read and enjoy!

Derek Hale is lost. He doesn't remember where he is, or where he is going to go. All he can remember are broken-up fragments of a battle, images of fire consuming his village and the armor of the Emperor's Hunters like the shells of a thousand beetles as they swarmed among the buildings and streets of his hometown. Someone, someone had told them about the last stronghold of the Wolf Clan that nestled in the shadow of a mountain and they had ridden out to mercilessly complete the task they'd been assigned five hundred years before: eliminate all of the wolves and bring their heads back to the Emperor. They had brought with them fire and weapons that Derek and his people had never faced before, long wood-and-metal spears that lacked points but could blow a fist-sized hole in a man's chest. Even as he staggered through the forest now, Derek winced as he heard the cracks and booms echoing in his mind. So much death, so many lost today; he wanted to vomit but didn't have the strength for it. One of the shaft-less arrows had pierced his side and now when he looked at it, an angry black web spread outward from the wound that would not heal. Pain was the only thing keeping him from losing consciousness, pain and and the burning hatred of the Hunters and their cruelty, but it was enough to spur him onward into the darkness of the forest. It was their home, his father had said, a place where wolves could go to find safety in the darkest of times. Flee down the mountain, Derek, and you will find a sanctuary there. Though at the moment Derek doesn't feel like he can ever be safe again and puts one foot in front of the other, ignoring the blood that runs down his leg and the agonizing stab in his side with each step. Forward. He must go forward if he wants to live. 

A root catches at his ankle, and he's too weak to avoid tumbling onto the forest floor. The scrapes and bruises he'll wear are ignored as he sinks his claws into the ground, crawling and slithering forward like a true beast now. Inch by inch he drags himself along in the dirt, vaguely aware that he's leaving a trail of blood behind him but unable to do anything other than persist forward, praying that the next handhold will take him to safety and praying again when it does not. 

“Gods help me, give me strength, strength, help me...” _Forward, forward._

Who is he praying to? Are there gods of rage and hatred, of pain and fury that will answer his call? Or are all gods of meek things, like trees and stones and the weak spring buds? There might not be a god at all that cares for dying wolves hauling themselves through the underbrush of the Spirit's Forest, and if there is then he is fickle and cruel. He leaves Derek to his fate on the forest floor, the final garbled words passing from his lips as he comes to a stop beside the trunk of a huge tree.The last thing Derek sees is the swan gray of the sky as it blurs into the dark shapes of the trees, and he closes his eyes painfully. Just to rest, just for a moment, he assures his brain. It only replies that it knows what he is doing, and is too tired to argue with death.

What he does not see is the dark shape moving towards him, an odd being with fur running down its back and two ears sitting motionlessly atop a round head, does not hear the clattering of the smooth rocks it holds or the soft voice calling out for him. The shape slinks forward quietly, testing the air with its nose and calling out to him again. It wants to chase him out, to make him leave the forest where he isn't supposed to be, and yet it cannot ignore the blood it smells and sees all over him. Bare feet hardly rustle a leaf as the creature sneaks up to him, cooing one last time to affirm that Derek is dead to the world. All that Derek knows is that at some point the world spins around him, there is an odd sucking sensation at his side that should hurt but is quickly replaced by a cool sensation that chases the pain away. He sleeps.

Beside him, the creature paws a bloody smear on its mouth and spits the metal pellet onto the ground, glaring at it furiously. The thing stinks of human and unnatural things, of a dark poison that has no doubt affected this man on the ground. It burns at the creatures lips and tongue, making him spit angrily at the thing and knock it aside with his claws. Bending over again, it grimaces around small fangs as it sucks more of the infected blood out of the man's side, turning periodically to spit and chatter angrily to itself. Once some of the blackened curse has receded, it peers over the man again. He is pale, clearly close to death, and though the muscled body speaks of great strength, he does not have enough to overcome this battle. Already he smells like death and rot and the creature wrinkles its nose, sneezing to drive the stench out. It turns and reluctantly sets the rocks it holds down on a mossy stone, turning back and narrowing golden-brown eyes at the man. Hesitantly, it reaches for the animal skin filled with water that it carries, then makes a decision and pours some over the wound. Next is the man's throat, only the barest swallowing response to tell the creature that he's actually still alive. For a long moment nothing happens, and the creature is tempted to just leave him be, but then a ripple under his skin snags its attention and it watches, awestruck, as some of the smaller wounds begin to heal themselves. Amazed and slightly abashed, the creature reaches down and touches at the healed skin, mesmerized by how quickly the flesh returns to normal. Perhaps this odd man will survive after all. It takes a deeper breath in, and beneath the scent of death and ash there is another scent, fainter, but enough to make its eyes widen considerably. This man carries the scent of the wolf, and the significance is not lost on the creature.

When Derek does awaken, it is with no small amount of surprise on his part. The second emotion is confusion, because he doesn't remember the world having ever been this painful before. Even the light in his eyes burns and stabs, drawing a whine from his throat and making him slam his eyes shut against it. Gods, how his whole body ached! It felt as though he'd been pounded with a dozen hammers from his head to his feet and then back up again so that as soon as he was awake, he wished he were asleep again. He tried to grab at sleep but it drained away from him too quickly and he was left squinting irritably against the light. A figure moved in front of his eyes and he jerked back, only to find a hand holding him steady at his shoulder. It took a few slow blinks to clear his eyes, but when he did Derek found himself staring into another pair, these ones a tawny brown. Almost shouting, he jumped backwards again, but the person—boy, he noted, the person's chest was bare and flat-- did not move from where he sat. In fact, he hardly blinked. Beneath the each of the uncanny eyes a red stripe was painted from cheek to chin and pointed at the end, a mark Derek had never seen before. A third rested between his brows and stretched up nearly to his hairline. At a second glance, Derek noticed the entirety of the boy's tribal outfit and furrowed his brow. Whoever he was, he wore a huge pelt atop his head and across his shoulders that Derek had thought was wolf, but on closer inspection proved to be the skin of the most enormous fox he'd ever imagined. Two white earrings swung beside his head, huge but otherwise undecorated, and Derek caught himself wondering if they were made from shell or bone. The necklace at his collarbone was definitely made of the fangs of some unknown beast and that thought made Derek swallow slowly. The boy wore no shirt or armor to cover himself, though the chill autumn air didn't seem to bother him in the slightest, and Derek took notice of the swirling tattoos that ran down his arms to the wrist. Two circles with concentric rings at the shoulder, and from there a swirling pattern that left triangles, symbols, and even runes in the negative space on the boy's skin. He seemed to be wearing little else except for a pair of deerskin pants and a knife slung at his side, feet bare as he crouched in the grass before Derek. 

They both tried to speak at the same time, startling one another. Yet the boy kept jabbering after the initial shock, a language of short words that sounded almost like yips and barks tied in with fluid, lengthier remarks. Derek felt his head spin, and it was only when he looked around him to steady his vision that he realized he'd been moved. Now he was lying on a pile of dried leaves and grasses, partially protected from the world by the roots of a gargantuan tree that spread out around him. Had the boy really moved him here, all by himself? It seemed like an impressive feat, yet he had no idea where he was or even how far from where he'd fallen. Blinking, his mind came momentarily back to the present and he realized that the boy was still trying to talk to him in that odd language that Derek had never heard before. 

“I'm sorry, I don't understand you. Do you speak my language?” The boy paused, catching up to the fact that Derek had no clue what he was talking about. There was a momentary deflation in his posture, shoulders slumping forward as he clearly thought about something, and then he perked up again. 

Then he grabbed Derek's chin with one hand and kissed him square on the mouth.

To say that he was unprepared for this movement would be a gross understatement. Derek froze, and almost coughed in shock when a tongue touched his. It wasn't a real kiss, though, more like the boy briefly shoving his tongue into Derek's mouth and pulling back just as quick. There had been a brush of soft lips against his own and a sharp, fresh taste that reminded him somewhat of spearmint, but the boy didn't seem to be putting much thought into that. Instead he sat back on his haunches, giving Derek a little grin and pushing the pelt up from where it had slid down his face.

“Can you understand me now?” Derek almost jumped out of his skin to find that he could, indeed, understand what this strange boy was saying. Not that he got a word in edgewise anyway.

“I'm taking the whole gaping-like-a-codfish face to mean that yes, you do understand me now, which is great. This conversation was going to take a while otherwise.” He stands, the movement quick and fluid enough to make Derek wonder what exactly the boy really _was_. Certainly not entirely human, from the looks of the sharp little points that his teeth ended in. “Now we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. The easy way is you telling me your name, where you came from, and why I shouldn't kill you on the spot for trespassing in this sacred forest. The hard way is you not telling me, and me killing you on the spot. Though I suppose that is technically easy for me. No offense, buddy, but you're not looking too good.” Derek was torn between apologizing for himself and rolling his eyes at the boy's chatter. 

“Gods, you talk a lot.”

Then the reason that he had been in the forest in the first place came crashing back onto him and he clutched his side, groaning in sudden pain. From under his fingers the black curse seeped along his skin, spreading with every pulse of his heartbeat until the agony wrenched a harsh curse from him and he collapsed against the pallet of leaves. The boy dropped back to his knees, pushing Derek's hands out of the way to look at the cursed wound and Derek didn't like the wince he saw on his face.

“Derek. My name is Derek Hale, and there was a battle--” he broke off again into another groan, clenching his eyes shut against the pain of it. “My town was burned...and I came here seeking sanctuary.” The pain releases him all at once, and he lays against the leaves, gasping for a moment. He doesn't even notice that the boy is washing his wound until he feels cold water dribbling over it, somehow taking away the pain. Trying to distract himself, he studies the long hands as they work. “Am I allowed to ask who you are?”

The boy pauses in his ministrations, looking up to meet Derek's eyes. Then he draws himself up, the pelt falling over his shoulders and his chin tilting upwards assertively. “I am known as Stiles, and my father is the Protector of this forest. Thus, I am the Prince of the Fox Tribe.” Derek is sure that his brows nearly shot off his face with how quickly they raised. A prince? Kneeling in the dirt and taking care of a lowly soldier like himself, cleaning his wounds? Even though Stiles is of another tribe, it feels somehow like an imposition. 

“Are you sure that this isn't improper, for me to make you--?” Stiles raises a hand, cutting him off. Derek never noticed before, but his left hand is covered in a glove of thick material, and each finger ends in an animal's claw. 

“It is, but...I couldn't just leave you there to die on the forest floor. You shouldn't be here, and my father will pitch a fit when he finds out, but for right now that is our little secret. Okay? I've got a soft spot for the defenseless.” 

“I'm not defenseless.” Derek growls it at him, perhaps more irritable than he should be with a prince, but that's a low-blow to a warrior. Even worse, it happens to be true. Derek doesn't even think he can do more than twitch his legs at the moment, much less actually stand. The thought must make his eyes flash in anger, because Stiles is flinching backwards slightly and tugging his hand away from where it had been cleaning Derek's wound. 

“Yikes, okay, okay. You're still a very powerful warrior man. Wolf. Person.” He seems suddenly awkward, rocking away from Derek and pressing his lips into a thin line. Or maybe he just gets that Derek isn't quite in the mood to listen to chatter. “I need some herbs for this, so I'll be back. You just lay there and try to sleep. Scream if anything tries to eat you.” Derek must be more tired than he thought, because he could swear that Stiles is gone before he actually finishes speaking. He blinks, laying back, and sleep comes with surprising ease.


End file.
